All You Ever Wanted At Just the Wrong Time
by dietplainlite
Summary: This day, it's like every fantasy she has ever had about him coming true, except thrown into a fun house mirror. Inspired by this lovely fan art by shoreshroot on Tumblr. shoreshroot dot tumblr dot com slash post slash 44751677407 There are two stories following this one, "No. 89" and "Where You Go I Cannot Follow." This fic won Best Hurt/Comfort (K-T) in the 2013 SAMFAs!


**Author's Note: I don't own these characters, as they are owned by Gatiss, Moffatt and of course Sir Doyle. **

"You must stay with him," says the deadly calm voice over the phone. "I have arranged for a safe house until he can leave the city but you must stay with him, Miss Hooper. This is for your safety as well as his."

Her mind is spinning in a hundred different directions as she hurries down the corridor, phone to one ear and her left arm locked tightly around Sherlock Holmes, who is walking in an oddly stiff and plodding manner, so different from his usual grace.

"Yes, of course. I—I mean. How long are you talking about? I'm still just a little lost."

"You've been told only what you need to know. Again, for your protection as well as my brother's. Exit from the loading dock near the incinerator. There will be a car there waiting for you. "The call disconnects and she stares at her phone stupidly for a moment before pocketing it and looking up at Sherlock. The blankness of his face scares her more than its pallor. She has removed his coat and suit jacket and thrown a black hooded sweatshirt on him. The bloodied clothes are in a duffle bag that hangs limply from Sherlock's left hand. The hood barely conceals the blood in his hair and does nothing to conceal the blood on his face, but there hadn't been time to do much about that. She steers him to the left, to the incinerator. Out the loading dock doors through which medical waste usually leaves. It takes her a moment to spot the car, but finally sees it idling just past the entrance to the dock. She gently coaxes Sherlock into the car and follows, gracelessly tumbling into the back seat. She barely has the door shut before the car is pulling away, slipping inconspicuously into traffic.

She gives herself one moment to take some deep breaths before turning back to Sherlock. She removes her pen light from her pocket.

"Sherlock," she says gently. He looks at her. Thank god. "I'm just going to check your vital signs, okay?"

He nods almost imperceptibly and she shines the light into his eyes. His pupils contract satisfactorily. She takes his pulse. Rapid but strong and steady. Respiration seems fine, too. She wishes she had a stethoscope but there's not much need of one in her line of work. She takes both of his hands in hers—they are cold—and asks him to squeeze hers. He does and his grip is strong. She holds up one finger.

"Follow my finger with just your eyes." She moves it down, then left to right. She has a moment of near hysteria when she realizes she has just made the sign of the cross over him, but tamps it down and continues her physical inspection.

"Are you feeling any pain?"

He looks at her, and bursts out laughing. Tears start streaming down his face but he continues to laugh. Oh shit. She takes his hands again.

"Sherlock. Look at me." He doesn't, just throws his head back and laughs . Alarmed, she climbs into his lap, facing him, not thinking of whether or not it is appropriate to be straddling him like this. She takes his face in her hands and he bats them away, his laughter reaching fever pitch. So she does the only thing she can think to do: she slaps him.

"Holy hell it worked," she breathes into the ensuing silence. She takes his face in her hands again, more gently this time. He is still crying, and she wipes the tears from his cheeks with her thumbs, then begins to wipe the rest of his face with the hem of her shirt. Before she can finish, though, he wraps both of his arms around her and pulls her close, burying his face in her chest and sobbing. If the last twenty four hours hadn't been so fucking surreal, she would not have been able to handle this from him, this raw vulnerability. But as it is, she goes with it, rubbing his back and shushing him. Whispering "It's okay. It's okay. You're okay."

He has lapsed into an exhausted silence by the time they reach their destination and they are sitting on opposite ends of the back seat. She hasn't been paying attention to where they are going, and when the car stops, it is in an underground garage. The driver opens the door and they stumble out. Molly reaches for the duffle bag but the driver stops her.

"Mr. Holmes will take care of this," he says.

"Mr. Holmes?" she starts, glancing at Sherlock. "But—Oh. Yes. I see." How much of this had his brother been involved in, and how far back had they been planning? She gets a little dizzy thinking of how many maneuvers were probably in this game, and at how many stages it could have gone wrong. But he is alive, if broken, and needs to rest. The driver gives her a key and a manila envelope, and tells her the flat number. He gestures to the service elevator, tips his hat, and gets back in the car.

Once inside the elevator, Molly looks in the envelope. It contains a stack of cash-at least 5000 pounds-and a prepaid mobile.

The flat is small but clean and thoroughly modern. A short term corporate rental. The first impression that Molly gets is of its whiteness. It was a smart move having them come up the service elevator as he is covered in blood and has transferred a lot of it onto her. He has to shower before he can sit or lie anywhere. He is just hovering at the door, scanning what he can see of the flat.

She goes into the lavatory and turns on the shower. Thankfully there are towels and toiletries. She hopes there are clothes in the bedroom. Or is that what the money is for? Is she supposed to go to the shops? But how if she's supposed to stay with him? No. One step at a time.

"Sherlock, you need to shower. If you sit anywhere the place will end up looking like a crime scene."

He chuckles at this and she is momentarily afraid of another outburst, but he shuffles toward the bathroom. When he gets to the door, though, he just stops. He looks lost, as though he absolutely has no idea what to do next. Is this emotional trauma or physical? What if he has a head injury that she didn't spot? She hadn't had the chance to give him a thorough physical examination.

"Sherlock. You'll need to just remove your clothes, and get in the shower. I've got it turned on and it's a good temperature. You'll want to test it first, though."

He manages to pull the hoodie over his head, and drops it to the floor. He tries to run his hands through his hair but is stopped by the congealing blood. He looks down at his hands and they start to shake.

"It's okay. You're fine," she says. She is just going to have to do this. He is her patient and she is his doctor. Nothing more. If she wants to further distance herself, she can just think of him as a body in the morgue. He is supposed to be dead, after all. She swallows down another wave of hysteria and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Unbuttons the cuffs and pushes it off of his shoulders. She barely reaches his chest and she can count every freckle and bruise on his torso but this barely registers as she instructs him to remove his shoes, socks, trousers and pants. He manages all of this and she busies herself gathering up the discarded clothes so that he can have a small amount of privacy getting into the shower. When he gets in, however, he doesn't close the curtain, he just stands under the stream.

"Oh god," she whispers. This day, it's like every fantasy she has ever had about him coming true, except thrown into a funhouse mirror. "Get it together, Hooper," she mutters.

"Sherlock, do you need help? I can shampoo your hair but I'll—I'll need to get in with you."

He nods and his face crumples and he starts to cry again. All her hesitation and embarrassment is eradicated at this. He needs her. She sheds her clothes—no use getting them sopping wet—and steps in with him, pulling the curtain closed. As she looks at him through clouds of steam she doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. This is definitely not how she imagined this. But he seems a tiny bit less fragile as he looks at her. She takes her hair out of its ponytail—there is blood in her hair, too—and positions their bodies so that the stream is hitting Sherlock. She is glad that her hair is long enough to cover her breasts. She is sure that he is beyond noticing, but it makes it a little less awkward for her all the same.

"Lean your head forward," she says. He complies, and as she wets his hair, the water turns pink as it runs down his chest and down the drain. God there had been so much blood.

"Close your eyes," she says, barely above a whisper. She reaches for the shampoo and as she lathers the rest of the blood away, she checks his scalp for any contusions or bumps. There are none. So this is all psychological. And she is at a loss at how to handle it other than to keep telling him he is okay. She quickly lathers her own hair as she lets the conditioner sit in his. She then rinses the conditioner from his hair while she lets it sit in hers. She hands him a flannel and soap.

"You have to wash yourself. I—I can't." She is almost at her wit's end. Nearly every inch of his body is now known to her and she cannot help but feel that it is a huge violation. What was his brother thinking? Did he think that Sherlock would just dust himself off and go merrily on his way? She washes herself with a second flannel, turns off the water and steps out of the shower. She wraps herself in a fluffy towel (white, of course) and holds one out for him. He accepts it and wraps it around his waist.

"Stay here where it's warm. Hopefully there are clothes."

She sighs in relief when she sees the clothes laid out in neat piles on the bed. They are very basic: track bottoms, jeans, t shirts, sweat shirts. She brings him a pair of track bottoms, pants and a t shirt.

"Thank you," he says, his voice cracking, and she realizes it is the first thing she has heard him say since she left him in the lab early this morning.

In the bedroom, she changes into an identical outfit in her size. When she returns to the bathroom, he is leaning on the sink. He has wiped the condensation from the mirror just enough to gaze at his face. The look she sees in his eyes before he notices her is heartbreaking. It is a mixture of remorse and self-loathing and grief, all through the filter of a child who doesn't understand what he's feeling. He looks down when he sees her, and when he looks up he is more guarded. She takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom, turns down the covers. There are blackout curtains in the bedroom so the early afternoon feels like dusk.

"You need to rest. Even if you don't sleep."

He climbs into the bed and she pulls the covers over him. She turns off the lamp and starts to go but he grabs her hand.

"Stay."

"Sherlock—I—I can't—"

"Please." A gentle but insistent tug on her hand. He slides over in the bed to make room for her.

She gives in. She is exhausted, too. And confused. And lost. And if, for once, he needs an anchor, she supposes that she must be it, because there is no one else. So she lays beside him, face buried in his chest, and they wrap themselves around each other, safe for a moment in the eye of the storm.


End file.
